Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

I was not sure what to make of Nadia.  It would have been better if she hadn’t said she liked me.  Perhaps she was just toying with my emotions.

Whatever she said, she was right about one thing, that it put a spoke in the works with my plan to get her the map and ease her problems with Alex.  Of course, I knew that wouldn’t be the end of her issues with Alex, he was not the sort to let a fish off the hook.

And despite her protestations to the contrary, she looked very much at ease in his company.  Had she told Alex what my plan was, and got Rico out of the way so he could set his sights on me?

Had Alex something to do with Rico’s current predicament?  Based on the information that Nadia had given me, the proximity of his boat, and the divers, what were they for?  I suspect it was not to remove fishing line from the propeller shaft.

No, this had the smell of the Benderby’s all over it.

I finished my drink and left.  Once outside, I could see there was still activity on Rico’s boat, and two men from the coroner’s office were just removing the body from the cabin.  I could see a group of white jump suit clad people waiting to board, the crime scene investigators.

I thought about going back to the boat, but there was a policeman standing on the start of the pier making sure only those with a legitimate reason were let through.

Enough excitement for one day.  It was time to go to work.  I had just enough time to get home, change, and get to the warehouse.

When I stepped into the office, Alex was waiting by my desk and that could only mean one thing, I was in some sort of trouble.  Usually, he just ignored me, unless there was something no one else wanted to do like taking inventory.

“A few minutes in my office Smidge.”

Trouble it was.  He only called me Smidge when he was annoyed with me.

I followed him in and closed the door.  His office was the same as his father’s, in the main building, only smaller.

He didn’t invite me to sit down.  He sat on the edge of his desk, facing me.  It brought back bad memories of being in the principal’s office at school.

“What were you doing talking to Nadia?”

How could he know?  Knowing Alex, he, or more to the point, his father, had spies everywhere.

“She came and sat next to me, Alex, not the other way around.  She was reminding me of how insignificant I was, and then she was asking questions about Rico.  I was there when they found a body on his boat, Alex.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

I watched his expression change for just a moment.  He didn’t have the same set in granite features as his father, a man who could lie to your face and stab you in the back at the same time.

“Why would I?  I was out testing Dad’s boat, and all I could see what police everywhere.  I wouldn’t put anything past Rico.”

Then I had an idea that might rattle Alex’s cage a little.

“There’s a rumour going around that Rico had a copy of a more detailed treasure map.  I mean, Boggs seems to think his father had a more detailed treasure map than the one doing the rounds, and maybe Rico had got his hands on it, and perhaps that man on the boat was a treasure hunter who was trying to buy it, or steal it, and got on the wrong side of an argument with someone, and not necessarily Rico.  To be honest, Alex, I don’t think Rico is that stupid he would murder someone on his boat.”

There was a definite interest in his eyes, one that sparked whenever I mentioned the treasure map, and it was more than a passing phase.

“You and I both know that Boggs is little more than a brainless idiot who’s always trying to make out his father wasn’t the world’s worst treasure hunter.  Those rumours are just that, Smidge, rumours.  There is no treasure and there is no map.  And it’s debatable whether Rico had anything other than a quick temper.  If I were you, I’d go looking for a better class of friend, and forget about this so-called treasure.”

Put as casually as he could, the problem was Alex could not keep the veiled threat out of his tone.  He was definitely telling me to back off.  But, then I had another thought, just to stir the pot a little more.

“Funny thing Alex, that was what Nadia told me too.  What if the Cossatino’s think the exact opposite, that the rumours are true.  She could have been sizing me up as a potential source for the map, seeing how Boggs and I are such good friends.”

Mentioning the Cossatino’s made Alex uncomfortable.  I could see it, and feel it.  The tension in the room was rising.

“You should keep well away from the Cossatino’s, and particularly Nadia.  They are very, very dangerous people.  If she’s talking to you, then I’d been running away as fast as I could.”

“Because you’re interested in her?”

“Are you, I mean seriously Smidge, what would she see in you?”

That, of course, was a good question, and from his perspective, quite a valid point.  I had nothing that he knew of to offer.

“Everyone has something someone else wants, Alex.  I’ll admit, at the moment, I don’t have anything to offer a woman like that, and she is way above my pay grade, but if you like, I’ll try to find out what it is she does want.  I work here, so perhaps she thinks I might be able to get some dirt on you unless you are good friends and she’s just trying to make my life more miserable than it already is.”

Yes, I could see the wheels turning, the Alex that didn’t trust anyone, no matter who they were.

“If she tries, you tell me.”

“Of course.  Now I’d better get back to work.  Your dad is supposed to be coming over for an inspection.”

He waved his hand, indicating I was dismissed.

Consider the cat thrown among the pigeons.

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

We flew north at low altitude, crossing the border into the Sudan, then ran along the border, heading back to the landing field we’d arrived on in Uganda.

It was basically a two-hour flight that in the end was eventless.  After everything that had happened over the past 24 hours, it wasn’t hard to doze off, leaving Davies to get us back.

I was woken suddenly by a thump on my arm.

“Need your help landing this crate,” a squeaky voice in my ear said.

I could feel the plane losing altitude, and the engines not making the same noise as they had just before I’d dropped off to sleep.  It seemed like it was only a few minutes ago we were taking off.

She leveled the plane at 1000 feet, and flew over the airfield, the landing lights on, and I could see the strip from start to end.  It looked a lot longer than the one we’d taken off from.

Turning sharply, I could hear the landing gear being activated and saw green lights come on one the dashboard.  Down and locked I assumed.

She then went through a series of landing checks and told me what she wanted me to do to assists, and then everything seemingly OK, we came in to land.

This landing was a lot bumpier than that in the C130 earlier, but she got us there, throttled back, and slowed the speed before heading for the terminal buildings.

Once there, she let the engines run for about a minute or so before switching them off.

Once the propellers stopped turning, the silence in the cockpit was strange.  At the rear, the door was opened, and everyone was getting off, the Colonel first to make sure none of his men shot anyone by mistake, and then the rest of the team.

Davies and I were the last to leave.  I got the impression she would have stayed, just a little longer, and it was telling that she patted the dashboard in what I would call a loving manner, thanking the aircraft for its service.

“I can see you like flying these old planes,” I said, still seated and taking in the moment.

“There’s something about them.  You have to fly them, they don’t fly you, not like the F15’s or any of those other jets that have autopilots.  No, this comes from the days of real flying.”

“You said your Dad has one?”

“Yep.”

“Then the art of flying is not lost on you.  Perhaps one day when I get lost, somewhere where this plane lives, you can take me up.”

“Any time.”

She dragged herself out of the left seat and headed towards the rear of the plane.  I took a moment longer, then followed her.

Maybe she could teach me how to fly.

Or maybe not.

I keep forgetting I hate flying in planes.

As I stepped off the plane onto terra firma again, I could see just inside the range of my peripheral vision, some activity by the terminal building.

Suddenly, a man was running towards us.  He was also yelling out, words to the effect, ‘they’re coming’.

Who?

The Colonel looked up just as the man, almost hunched over out of breath, reached him.

“They’re coming.  A helicopter, heading towards us.”  Several more huge breaths, then, “An hour at best.”  He looked at me.  “You have to go.”

Then he handed the Colonel a sheet of paper, and he quickly scanned it.

Then he said, “Your friendly militia decided the ransom wasn’t enough and they’re coming to take them back.”

“How is that possible?  Can they just cross borders like that?”

“This is Africa.  Anything can happen.  By the time their mission is done, it’ll be too late for us to scramble anything to attack them.  You need to go.”

Davies had come back, assuming it had something to do with the plane, and after taking in what the Colonel had to say, said, “We need more fuel.  Not much, but it’ll take time.”

The fuel truck had already come out and begun the refueling.

“Go tell the driver how much you need.  You’ve probably got a half-hour, a little more before you take off and go before, they get here.”

She headed towards the fuel truck, muttering under her breath.

I yelled out to Monroe, “Round up everyone and get them back on the plane.  Wheels up in half an hour.”

I could see her mouth the word why.

“Seems we’re about to get a visit from some very unfriendly people.”

Enough said.

© Charles Heath 2020